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Updated: June 24, 2025
Such a thinking as we keep up; and if we try to find out anything, we are sure to get our brains knocked out in the attempt. It is very trying to a sensible baby, who is in a hurry to know everything, and can't wait to grow up. It was a very hot morning in August, when little Floy stopped to look in at a city fruiterer's window.
"Floy," he said, "what is that?" "Where, dearest?" "There, at the bottom of the bed." "There's nothing there except papa." The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the bedside said: "My own boy! Don't you know me?" Paul looked it in the face and thought, was this his father?
He remembered his old bed too, when they laid him down in it: his aunt, Miss Tox, and Susan: but there was something else, and recent too, that still perplexed him. 'I want to speak to Florence, if you please, he said. 'To Florence by herself, for a moment! She bent down over him, and the others stood away. 'Floy, my pet, wasn't that Papa in the hall, when they brought me from the coach?
No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand, and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. 'Floy! this is a kind good face! said Paul. 'I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here.
'You are always watching me, Floy, let me watch you, now! They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him: bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him.
'It ain't right of you to ask it, Miss Floy, for you know I can't refuse you, but Mrs Richards and me will see what can be done, if Mrs Richards likes, I may wish, you see, to take a voyage to Chaney, Mrs Richards, but I mayn't know how to leave the London Docks. Richards assented to the proposition.
"As he hath done unto My people, be it done unto him!" he muttered, but the words did not comfort him. Lamar moved, half-smiling. "That's right, Floy. What is it she says? 'Now I lay me down' I forget. Good night. Kiss me, Floy." He waited, looked up uneasily. Dorr looked at his wife: she stooped, and kissed his lips.
Turn there, to your right, little artist, high up on that mountain; can you see through the shimmering haze a great team moving as if through the air? It is like the vision of the Bethshemites in Dore's mystic work, when in the valley they lifted up their eyes and beheld the ark returning. Oh, Floy, it is not Nature; it is God. And who can paint God?" "No one.
Putting his hands together "as he had been used to do at his prayers " not removing his arms to do it, but folding them so behind his sister's neck "Mamma is like you, Floy!" he cried; "I know her by the face! But tell them that the picture on the stairs at school is not Divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!" Then came two noble passages, nobly delivered.
And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening she sat down by his side and made all that was so dark, clear and plain before him. It was nothing but a startled look in Paul's wan face a flush a smile and then a close embrace but God knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for her trouble. "Oh, Floy!" he cried, "how I love you!"
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